He tells of rich and stately halls:
Did, then, the Poet's lifetime pass
Where Painting flushed the tide of thought,
And Sculpture Art's fair moonlight wrought
On Fancy's crystal glass?

In one bare room he nightly learned
How Poverty can bruise the head
Of Genius with his iron foot;
How weak upon the heaven-strung lute
Are hands that strike for bread.

And wherefore thus, in every tale,
Does he a little child portray;
And when he draws a maiden fair,
Why has she always soft brown hair,
And eyes of twilight gray?

Love's own dear studies taught his eye
Those gentle pictures thus to shade;
The one fair son, the fairer wife,
Those sunbeams of the clouded life
That sparkled but to fade.

And wherefore, to the grave's low edge,
Do thus his spirit's children come,
And almost breathe the air of heaven;
Yet, ever at the last are given,
A life of fresher bloom?

The fancy soothed exhausted Hope,
When Death's sure watch-fire lit her eyes;
And her rich colour, bright and brief,
Was but the crimson-blighted leaf
That kindles while it dies.

Love curtained up its last great grief:—
Alas, he should dissemble well!
A song of mirth, a sparkling jest,
Paid for the tomb that gave her rest,
When nothing else would sell.

We'll bind thee grandly, little book,
We'll clasp thy faithful leaves with gold;
Thy master shall have homage deep,
And wealth and honour richly reap,
Applause from young and old.

Too late! The loves that beautified
His life, thy hand was slow to save;
God, by the touch of Memory,
Loosened his heartstrings tenderly:—
Therefore, whate'er thy honours be,
Go, cast them on his grave.

MONSIEUR GOGO'S.

THERE is, in the famous city of Paris,
between the Champs Elysées and the Park of
Monceaux, a street called the Rue Miresmonisl.
When we were novices in the Trivia,
or art of walking the streets, of Paris, and
consequently erred like lost sheep therein,
this Miresmonisl was to us a harbinger of a
discovered territory; for when we found it,
we found a clue to the intricate maze of
thoroughfares we were threading. Miresmonisl,
or, as, in the innocence of our hearts and our
then imperfect French, we were wont to call
it, Mirrlymonizzle, led, or seemed to lead, to
every place of note in Paris. It adjoined the
Tuileries; it was hard by St. Honoré; it was
over-against the Boulevards; it was the way
into town, and out of town. It led into the
Rue de la Pepiniere; it conducted the
wayfarer into the Rue de Courcelles, where,
standing half-way between one of the slaughter-
houses, the Abattoir du Roule, and the hotel
whilom occupied by Queen Maria Christina
of Spain, was an establishment with which
we have at present more particularly to do.
This was the Pension Gogo. We were brought
up by M. Gogo.

We were for a long time brought up there.
In consideration of a sum of one thousand
francs, paid quarterly, we were instructed in
the usual branches of a polite education—
boarded, lodged, and washed. Moreover, the
Pension Gogo was a school of ease—a succursale,
as it is called, to the Collège Bourbon,
now Lycée Bonaparte, which did not receive
boarders; and, from the Pension to the
College we were daily conducted (when
sufficiently advanced in our humanities to profit
by the collegiate course of instruction), returning
to our meals at stated periods.

The prospectus of the establishment (printed
on superfine paper, with gilt edges) stated it
to be situated " in the midst of vast gardens,
and orchards filled with the most delicious
fruit." We confess that the vastness of the
gardens and the deliciousness of the fruit were
of no very special benefit to us boys; for they
both belonged to as ill-tempered a market-
gardener as ever wore a straw hat and carried
a scarlet gingham umbrella, and who let loose
fierce mastiffs at us when we were bold enough
to scale his wall to recover lost balls or
shuttlecocks, who maliciously whitewashed his
peaches and nectarines, in order to render
them nauseous to our taste, after we had
been at the trouble of stealing them, and who
was notoriously suspected, and was, we verily
believe, guilty, of the cold-blooded and
cowardly ferocity of placing large cat's-head
apples and juicy jargonelle pears as decoy
ducks within our reach, which were filled with
jalap and tartar emetic. " The house, or rather
the château," (the prospectus went on to say)
"covered a large extent of territory, and was
adjoined by beautiful pleasure-grounds." In
good sooth, it was a spacious range of buildings,
(for we had fifty boarders, or internes, and
upwards of a hundred externes, or day-boys, to
accommodate,) arranged round a good-sized
gravelled square or play-ground: one side of
the quadrangle being formed by the master's
house; the side opposite him by the boundary-
wall, separating us from the morose market-
gardener, and the two lateral ones by the
school-rooms and dormitories of the boys.

Straight, as we write, rises up before us
portly, bass-voiced, important, and inflexible
(though dead and cold these half-dozen years),
the master—directeur, he was called—of the
pension, M. Napoleon Gogo. Large was he
in person, black of hair, whiskerless of